The Witch’s Heart

ZENAIDA

She was born under a cursed moon, carrying cursed blood.

Her life was predetermined to be one of misfortune and disaster, made apparent by the mark beneath her eye.

They used to call it the Brand of Death, because those who bore it were followed by demise. Now, they call it the Witch’s Mark. The first name, however, remained more fitting for Zenaida’s fate.

She just turned six when she witnessed someone die for the first time. It was the very first day she was allowed to leave the estate with her brother. It would be the last time too.

With all the demise a cursed witch was supposed to carry, Zenaida had lived a far too comfortable life until that day, when she entered a place that seemed determined to make her pay back all the years of misfortune she had been spared, a place she wasn’t even supposed to be at.

But she was there.

And it cost her dearly.

Now, as she looked at the man lying in the middle of the pyre, soon to be lit, she was reminded that she was still paying the price for it.

Funerals were held at night according to the traditions of the North. The souls needed the darkness so that the light of Sahera could guide them through the underworld and towards rebirth. It was the strong belief that a new life awaited them that allowed the people of Amberg to meet death with such stern expressions.

It had rained the whole day, only stopping once the sun had set behind the snowy mountains. Still, the sky remained fully clouded and the moon seemed darker than it had ever been. It was as if even the Gods themselves were mourning the dead. But for the men and women of Amberg, there was no greater honor that could befall them.

In a world where one could cheat death in countless ways, Zenaida was perhaps the best example of why they held such pride in dying. After all, one had to be alive first to be able to experience death.

She knew that she was the manifestation of everything the Northerners normally despised. Her existence alone played a part in that, since witches were persecuted not only here, but throughout the entire Great Continent. The Northerners, however, had once been the most ruthless in their pursuit, for the existence of witches not only threatened them as humans, but also their gods.

Death was a central part of their belief, for no matter how much Man could conquer, death was something they could never overcome. That was until the witches made it possible.

Under any other circumstances, they would never have accepted her in any way. If anything, they would have tortured and burned her. But they did accept her.

And they made her Queen.

That she was, for two whole years, though in title only. The King, her husband, was married to multiple women besides her. Polygyny was still practiced in Amberg, which was the only reason such a union had come to be in the first place.

As a witch carrying a curse, she was not allowed to bear children. Thus, her responsibilities as a Queen were not the usual ones. She was not expected to give the King any heirs, and she was even forbidden from sharing a bed with him.

It was meant to keep her in her place. Some would even say it was meant to shame her. But for Zenaida, it was more than she could have asked for. She had been prepared to be used as a tool, discarded the moment it stopped functioning. She had never expected to be treated with any dignity.

Watching the pyre getting lit, she closed her eyes, imagining his face one last time. Her memory tended to betray her, erasing entire episodes of her life, but for some reason, she hoped she would remember this man.

He didn’t love her, at least not in the romantic sense in which a man loves a woman. She did not love him either. But she thought he was fond of her. He could have treated her as the pawn she was, or merely as the role of protection she had been forced to play. He could have forsaken her, and she would have lived with it.

But he did not.

She still had a role to play; she would not be here without it. But here, in the North, she did not feel like she was merely needed. She felt like she was wanted. And sometimes, she even felt appreciated.

She breathed in through her nose, inhaling the scent of burning wood and straw before opening her eyes again. She did not want to be there when his body began to catch fire. She did not want to smell the burning of flesh. So she bowed to her King one last time before returning to her chambers.

As soon as the Gate to the Castle opened, she caught a glimpse of the long brown hair neatly tied at his neck. It was not only his hair, but the way his back looked just as it had all those years ago, whenever she had watched him.

Yaril had a way of carrying himself unlike any other man. His back was always straight, his head held high, his elegantly moving hands showing the care and wealth he had grown up with. “A Man’s hands are rough. Otherwise, he’s not a Man,” they said up here. If that were true, then she was more of a Man than Yaril.

He turned around when the servant he was speaking to nodded in her direction and quickly bowed as she entered. It was not as deep as courtesy would have required of him. If she had blinked, she would not have even noticed it.

It had been two years since he had picked her up from the last estate and escorted her to the north. Now, he had come to escort her again.

It was the darkest night Zenaida had experienced since she had arrived here, and still, she could make out the expression on her brother’s face. He was not here to surprise her with anything new, nor would he bring her any other message than the one she was expecting. And still, there was something else in his gaze this time, and it was not the annoyance that had grown with the time they had spent apart.

She knew what that something was. It showed in the smile that began to form as she walked towards him, and it showed even more when he stretched his hand out to her. She saw his gaze wander to her hands first, making sure she was wearing gloves before he let her place her hand into his. He raised it to his mouth, gesturing as though to kiss the back of her hand, but his lips never even touched the fabric of her gloves.

Even now, the very idea of touching her skin repulsed him.

“You were missed, dear sister.”

He guided her hand to his forearm, placing it there before turning around to face the entrance of the Castle. “Please allow me to accompany you to your chambers,” he said, but didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he gestured for the servants to leave, her hand still resting on his forearm, his own hand placed above it, making sure she couldn’t run away when he pulled her through the doors.

If someone saw them, they might think of them as close siblings. Zenaida knew better. This brother of hers was not like the one who had wanted to show her the world and died for it. This one would make sure she never saw a glimpse more than what he chose to show her. This one would make sure that the demise that followed would swallow her, and only her, completely.

“Tell me, dear brother,” she began, emphasizing the last bit, hoping it disgusted him as much as it disgusted her whenever he called her that. “Are we departing soon?”

“Very soon. I will be waiting in front of your door while you collect your things, and I will accompany you straight to the carriage.”

He was smiling as he told her, and even while she was looking down, unable to see him, she could hear it in his voice. He meant to tell her that he couldn’t get rid of her fast enough.

And she was just as happy to be rid of him, too.

She cleared her throat, this time looking at him before speaking. “I saw the carriage. This looks like a long journey you’ve prepared for. Since I am not allowed to know where it is taking us, may you at least spare me an indication?”

She already knew it was somewhere to the south. There was far too much luggage for it to be the east. It could still be the west, though, depending on how far they would have to travel.

Still, she was hoping for a little more from him, and surely enough, he returned her gaze.

“This time, shall I tell you where it is?” His pupils wandered to the ground for a moment, as if he were hesitating after all. At the same time, however, his lips slowly formed another smile before he spoke again. “Since this one will be the last, right, sister? This one will finally have you dead.”

This time, it was she who turned away to avoid his gaze.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. She wasn’t—not even shocked by what he had said—and yet, it still hit her in the gut. All the hatred he carried for her, she had seen it countless times before. She had felt it, too, but right now, she felt it as clearly as ever.

But she wasn’t hurt.

She was angry at herself for having shown him a reaction.

She raised her head, swallowing down her pride and the instinct that had kept her alive until this day. “You are right about that,” she said, her chest tightening. “I will not survive this one.”

“This is how it is meant to be,” he said, and stopped looking at her.

“Indeed.”

She chuckled, much to his surprise. Even to her own.

Still, she let a smile grace her face. When she had woken up that morning, knowing her day would end like this, she had not planned on saying any of this. But the words formed on her tongue before her mind could stop them.

“But what if he doesn’t?” she asked, posing a question that was never meant to be answered.

She saw him looking at her from the side, but instead of returning his gaze, she stopped in her place, forcing the arm her hand was resting on to come to a stop with her.

Confusion took over his face, both because of her words and because she had stopped.

“What do you mean?”

“My question to you is, what if this one doesn’t bring me death?”

He frowned, his eyebrows rising in annoyance. “He will. You know that better than anyone.”

He grabbed her hand, wanting to continue on their way, but she snatched it away.

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Enough!” He shouted, having lost his mask of composure even faster than she had intended him to.

This was the brother she knew. The one who had no patience for anyone, least of all his sisters. Until now, she had made sure to stay on his good side, careful not to give him a reason to turn that anger on her.

But today would mark the first day she walked straight toward her death. And from this point on, this was the only direction that awaited her.

So, just like the Northerners, she would not fear it.

“I will tell you,” she said, looking at him. “If I die, I will gladly do so, finally able to escape this wretched world.”

She thought of another possibility, one that, as small as it might be, would bring her even more joy than finally joining death.

“But if, for some reason, my future Husband does not wish me dead, I will be coming to collect the debt that is owed. Because you know it, brother: if demise does not claim me, I will make sure it claims everyone around me.”

Resentment. Disgust. Hate.

She saw it all in his face. But this time, there was shock as well.

She had never talked back. Never objected to anything he ordered her to do. And most of all, she had never dared to threaten him.

He had expected the North to be harsh to her, to break whatever last bit of spirit might remain in that damaged body of hers. Instead, they had roughened her tongue. Whatever confidence they had fed her, he would have to get it out of her before he presented her.

His reactions were exactly as she had expected them to be, and it was almost boring.

So she laughed again.

Yaril was her scariest brother— or at least, that was what she used to think, before her first marriage. Now she knew better. He was like a dog. A dog that barked, but never bit.

Zenaida, on the other hand, had nothing left to lose, and he knew she was right. She was fated to die. But if she managed to escape her fate, then that would truly mean that not even death could stop her.

She didn’t give him another chance to respond. She saw his fist clench, and even though he hadn’t hit her in years, she knew he was still capable of doing so.

She had grown numb to the hits and kicks her brother, or occasionally her father, would throw at her. But she would still feel the shame of them, and she did not want to leave the North carrying that feeling with her.

Which was why she turned around and began walking in the direction they had just come from.

“I don’t need anything from here, since the dead don’t carry any belongings.”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, still in shock over the threat she had dared to throw at him. That was why she halted after only a few steps and spoke again without turning her head, staring straight ahead.

“No wasting time, dear brother.” She hid the slight tremble in her voice, knowing she did not mean her next words. “I’m in a hurry to meet my third Husband.”